


Chequerboard

by AgentExile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (There's kink but there's plot!), Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Angst, BDSM, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugs, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Gambling, Gangs, Guns, Hate Sex, M/M, Mafia AU, Organized Crime, Rough Sex, Russian Mafia, So Much Crime, Unhealthy Relationships, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentExile/pseuds/AgentExile
Summary: Otabek is an undercover police officer tasked with infiltrating the Russian mob. His plan is simple: seduce the boss’s ferociously guarded protégé and navigate his way into the inner circle.Except these days the only things that seem make his heart beat faster are the violence, the weight of the gun in his hand, and worst of all, the dangerously seductive Yuri Plisetsky.He’s still one of the good guys, right?





	1. Chapter 1

‘Another?’

   Otabek nods, not looking at the barman as he fills his glass. His eyes are trained on the corner of the club, behind the velvet ropes, amongst the dark couches and lower-lighting of the private section.

   He is watching _him_.

   He has been for an hour.

   The man across the room is no stranger, though of course Plisetsky himself wouldn’t know it. They’ve never spoken, never so much as occupied the same close space, and yet Otabek feels like he knows him better than his own brother. How many hours has he spent poring over his files? Studying his photographs? Searching for every deeply buried snippet of information about his past? He’s sure he knows Plisetsky better than the boy knows himself.

   Man, not boy. He might look small, elfin, but he’s as adult as the rest - twenty years of age and old enough to know better. He’s experienced and dangerous and Otabek cannot ever permit himself to underestimate him.

   He has been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

   Every night he’s been sat at this goddamn bar with its sordid patrons and its pretentious alcohol, waiting for the few times a year that Nikiforov himself pays a visit, and the one or two times that he brings his favourite student with him.

   Yuri Plisetsky is sprawled across one of the couches; he has been wearing the same bored, dissatisfied expression all night. Otabek looks him up and down for the hundredth time tonight, trying to memorise every detail that he may have missed from the photos.

   He’s pretty - dangerously pretty. It would be far too easy to get distracted by his face in a fight. Usually Otabek likes to see people animated, but there is something about the cold, aloof expression that seems to suit Plisetsky’s face - in fact, the more he looks, the less he can imagine what he would look like with a genuine smile.

   His skin is very pale, more so than the others around him, as though he spends a lot of time inside. He does, after all, from what Otabek has read - Nikiforov likes to keep him close and safe. The blond hair knotted loosely at the nape of his neck is longer than Otabek has seen before, but then again it has been a long time since someone at the station has managed to get a good photo of him.

   ‘I wouldn’t stare too much if I were you.’

   Otabek snaps out of his reverie with a hint of irritation, turning to look at the barman.

   ‘The Boss loves that kid like a son - he’ll take your eyes out if he catches you ogling him like that.’

   There they are again: those buzzwords. _The Boss_ , Nikiforov. _The Kid,_ Plisetsky. Like Nikiforov is the big bad wolf and Plisetsky is an innocent child brought along for the ride. Otabek knows better. The baby-face won’t work with him - he’s not so easily taken in. He’s seen the list of Plisetsky’s crimes - he knows exactly what _the kid_ is capable of.

   If only the loyal barkeep could know what is really going through his mind as he surveys the criminals before him.

   The man has a point, but Otabek doesn’t look away. Getting caught is exactly what he wants.

   He watches as a familiar face appears from the backroom, sweeping around the plush couches and placing both hands down on Plisetsky’s shoulders. His fingers are protective, almost possessive, as he leans down to whisper something into his ear.

   Viktor Nikiforov himself.

   He is tall, silvery hair tied back neatly, face angular and smooth and betraying none of the brutality that Otabek knows lurks beneath. Plisetsky fidgets a little, shrugging his shoulders free with an irritated expression. It almost makes Otabek smile.

   Almost.

   He keeps his eyes on Plisetsky’s face until the younger finally, after all this time, glances up at him.

   There’s a charge there. Plisetsky tries to hide it behind indifference - Otabek can tell - but it’s there. It doesn’t come as much of a surprise - Otabek knows Plisetsky well enough to know that he is _his type_. It’s one of the reasons why he has decided on this plan in the first place.

   Originally, he had been sent in to work his way up through the arms division - his family has enough vague connection to the mob to ensure that his entry was unhindered - and his record with the police is completely untraceable. He was supposed to force himself into the upper echelons of the division and use his newfound position to feed across information about the gang’s business.

   But somewhere down the course, he had come up with his own plan.

   A riskier one.

   But a better one.

   Seduce Nikiforov’s beloved protégé, and find himself a seat in his most guarded inner-circle.

   And so here he is tonight, sharing this gaze with Yuri Plisetsky at last.

   Plisetsky tilts his head almost imperceptibly to the right, as though analysing him, face unmoved except for the flash across his eyes. He watches Otabek for too long, much longer than any _normal_ person would hold eye contact for, before drawing his eyes away so slowly that it implies reluctance.

   Otabek’s heart pounds against his chest.

   All those hundreds of hours… they’ve all been building up to this night.

   He can’t mess this up. It might be his only chance.

   He keeps staring, provocatively so now. Plisetsky can hardly not notice. And sure enough, it isn’t long before he glances up again. There’s a definite look of curiosity in his eyes now; curiosity and something else.

   This time, Otabek takes the opportunity to drag his eyes up and down the man’s body, lingering everywhere that he knows will announce his intention loud and clear. When he looks back up to his eyes, there’s a hunger there that can’t be hidden. Just as he expected.

   He chose this route because he had known from the second he read his file that seducing Plisetsky would be easy.

   He’s a loose cannon, emotionally charged in every facet. He kills passionately, and Otabek knows that this means he loves passionately too. The two almost always coincide. He’s sheltered so aggressively by Nikiforov even at this age that Otabek knows he’ll be itching to act out, test the boundaries of his senior’s custody, maybe even do something that he knows will anger him.

   He’s sure that it will be too easy.

   And the look in Plisetsky’s eyes tells him in no uncertain terms that he is right.

   Otabek is no lip-reader, but it’s not difficult to guess what he says as he inclines towards to the bodyguard stood beside him. The man leans down, apparently unperturbed that his charge doesn’t even glance in his direction, eyes still fixated firmly on Otabek’s. He can almost see the words, _who is that man? over there?_ as they roll from those thin, perfect lips.

   He meets the bodyguard’s eyes too, just for fun, before looking back at Plisetsky.

   One of those lips is caught between his teeth now, and Otabek relaxes a little.    

   His work here is as good as done.

*

   It’s an hour later when he at last stands up for a cigarette.

   The roped-off corner of the club has half emptied, Plisetsky amongst those who have retired to one of the quieter private rooms. Otabek knows that he only went because the vice-like grip the boss took on his wrist was surely unbreakable.

   _Fuck._

If Nikiforov fucks all of this up…

   He leans against the wall of the alley that channels between two venues, both owned by the family. Next door is a strip club - he’s half tempted to retire there later to work off some steam if this doesn’t work out. He lets out a quiet curse, closing his eyes and praying that his target will have returned by the time he re-enters.

   His eyes fly open at the sound of movement. Whoever has entered the alley is quiet, but not quiet enough.

   ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he grunts as an open hand aims directly at his face. His arm flies up instinctively to block, but is parried away instantly.

   He’s trained, so well trained, that it shouldn’t be too difficult to fight off some backstreet mugger. What the fuck? Except of course it’s not some random backstreet mugger. There’s hardly going to be any _coincidences_ tonight.

   Silver hair flashes as Nikiforov flattens him to the wall, nails pressing into his throat so tightly that he’s sure they’ll break the skin. His body takes a moment to catch up with his brain, muscle memory working through the usual steps to fend off an assailant even though he knows that taking a swing at the boss himself would mean a one-way ticket upstairs. Luckily, his motions are futile.

   Nikiforov immobilizes him easily, fingers tight against _just_ the right spots to obstruct the blood flow to his brain. Otabek splutters, stars flickering in front of his eyes.

   ‘Who do you work for?’ Nikiforov is much taller than Otabek, even as he lifts him to the full stretch of his toes, and a flicker of spittle hits Otabek’s face as he spits his words through clenched teeth.

   ‘ _You_ ,’ Otabek chokes, trying to keep his limbs under control. His instincts are on fire - survival pangs overtaking his training now, making him want to kick out blindly because it’s suddenly very, very clear to him that Nikiforov could kill him right here.

   ‘Of course you work for me, otherwise they wouldn’t have let you past the door,’ Nikiforov grits out. ‘But who do you _really_ work for?’

   ‘Dmitri…’ he hacks out. There are black spots in his eyes now. ‘I’m… one… Dmitri’s boys…’

   He can’t be certain, but he thinks that he feels the grip loosen slightly at the name. Dmitri is the deputy head of the arms operation - it’s a name with clout enough that a little more oxygen seems to reach his brain than it did five seconds ago. The nails still cut at his skin, but Otabek knows that Nikiforov is avoiding the pressure points now, perhaps not wanting to risk killing a productive member of his own family if he doesn’t need to.

   ‘Why were you watching him?’

   ‘I don’t know what you - what you mean.’

   Nikiforov studies him with piercing eyes, narrowed in investigation. Then Otabek flinches again as he feels the cold of a blade at his throat.

   _Fuck_.

   ‘I _said:_ why were you watching him?’

   Otabek doesn’t have to look down to know the blade. It’s a long, ornate thing, slightly curved, etched with the family name. He’s seen enough photos of it. He knows that it’s never far from Nikiforov’s hand. ‘The blond kid? I just thought he was hot… maybe we could have a good time… I didn’t realise he was… I’ll stay away… I won’t look at him again,’ he rambles, but the words are carefully calculated inside. He knows that the implication won’t sit well with the man before him, but he’d rather he think him a sleaze in a bar than a cop.

   He looks down, not meeting his eyes. It’s not that he’s intimidated - not that he’s reverent - but he knows that the Otabek he’s supposed to be playing _would_ be. He’s supposed to be some low level muscle working simple deals - he’d hardly look the biggest boss straight in the eye.

   He can feel Nikiforov studying him. He knows from his research that the boss trusts his own instincts above all else - he’d trust his instincts over something painted plainly, undeniably in front of him. Otabek just prays that he’s a good enough actor to fool him. He’s always prided himself on his skill, an adept liar even as a kid, but he’s never been put to the test like this.

   ‘Please,’ he says, feeling the knife edge across his skin. ‘I won’t look again I swear.’

   Finally, Nikiforov steps back.

   Otabek half slumps, breath coming out in short gasps that aren’t entirely fake. The composed man before him slides the knife into his belt and reaches up to straighten out Otabek’s shirt. It takes every fibre of control in his body to stop himself flinching away - he can almost _see_ all of the blood on Nikiforov’s filthy hands, all of the countless people he’s _disposed of_.

   To his disgust, Nikiforov reaches up to push his hair back across his forehead. Otabek knows that he can probably feel the sweat.

   ‘Alright, I think you’re presentable,’ he says calmly, voice betraying none of the rage or the aggression from earlier. ‘He’s all yours, kitten.’

   Otabek looks around, mouth dropping slightly open as Yuri Plisetsky saunters down towards them. He’d been so occupied by the man almost choking him to death that he hadn’t even noticed the boy he’d been staring at all night leaning casually at the end of the alley.

   Plisetsky pulls a slight face at the condescending nickname, shoving his way past his guardian and standing squarely in front of Otabek.

   Otabek can barely breathe, oxygen seeming to become even harder to find than it had been when Nikiforov had been holding him.

   _It’s happening._

Plisetsky has a look that suggests he’s either going to kill him or kiss him, and the two come from such similar places that Otabek cannot differentiate them in his eyes.

   ‘Are you going to watch us, too?’ Plisetsky says, not bothering to look at Nikiforov as he addresses him.

   ‘I’m not watching you. I’m watching him.’

   ‘Creep,’ Plisetsky mutters, turning back to him. ‘I’m sorry about that. Viktor is _very_ protective. He likes to run his little checks.’

   Otabek can’t find words.

   ‘Oh sweetie, he didn’t scare you did he?’

   ‘I…’ he’s at a loss. All these months of planning and he’s standing there like a fucking idiot, throat aching and eyes unable to look away from the face before him because _fuck_ Yuri Plisetsky is even more striking up close.

   ‘Oh Viktor you _have_ scared him off,’ he says furiously, looking over his shoulder at the unmoving sentinel with a look of complete contempt. ‘I really liked him, too.’

   The past tense finally makes Otabek straighten up - shifts the cogs of his brain back in to gear. What is he doing? He can’t let this opportunity slip away. He’s halfway through forming words at last but the two of them continue to talk as though he’s not even there.  

   ‘Please, Yuri, if he’s scared of a little _play_ , he won’t last five minutes with you,’ Nikiforov’s lips curl into a small smile that makes Otabek’s skin crawl. ‘Besides, he hasn’t gone yet, has he? You can run, you know,’ he adds, in Otabek’s direction, ‘it would do me a favour.’

   Otabek doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t move.

   ‘See, give the boy a little more credit,’ Nikiforov continues. ‘I’m sure I felt a backbone in there somewhere.’

   ‘You reckon he’s safe?’ says Plisetsky, and for the first time there’s a hint of a waver in his voice, a hint of deference. Otabek can tell that he’ll trust unswervingly whatever answer his keeper gives him.

   ‘Yes. He’s safe.’

   Otabek exhales steadily, trying not to alter his breathing. He passed the test. Nikiforov’s test. He’s not surprised that the boss came to do it himself - everything he knows about Nikiforov points to his faith in his own mind and body above all others’. He doesn’t send thugs to do his dirty work for him, not when it’s personal. He trusts no one but himself.

   But he’s wrong this time.

   ‘Lucky you,’ Plisetsky breathes, turning back and moving very close to Otabek - so close that he can feel his breath on his skin. He curves close to his ear, words hot and heavy. ‘He doesn’t let many people talk to me. He lets even less touch me. You just earned yourself a _very_ exclusive ticket.’

   ‘I - ’ he jolts as the blond nips at his ear, a little too hard to be entirely painless.

   Plisetsky laughs lightly, breath tickling over him. ‘Oh I think I’ll like you. I’m Yuri, by the way.’

   _Oh yes, I know_ , Otabek thinks, grounding himself. ‘Otabek,’ he replies, swallowing hard.

   Yuri steps back, looking him up and down. ‘Well I think after all the eye-fucking you were giving me in the club, we can skip the pleasantries.’

   Otabek nods, heart pounding.

   ‘Don’t say much, do you?’

   He shakes his head, very conscious of the fact that Yuri’s hands are now stroking up and down his front, teasing over his chest and fiddling playfully with the buttons that he passes.

   ‘Good,’ Yuri shrugs, closing his fingers tight on his shirt, ‘because I like to do most of the talking. Shall we?’

   _Last chance to back out, Otabek_ , he tells himself, but he pushes the thought to the very back of his mind.

   It’s time for the games to begin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow thank you all so much who commented on the first chapter and left kudos - I’m so glad you guys are enjoying the story <3

   The first time that Otabek had approached the department, they’d laughed him back out onto the street. They didn’t believe that a teenager with a record that read “ _exclusion… expulsion… father and uncle in prison…”_ could ever really want to work with them. They didn’t believe that a nineteen year old from a family of organised crime could possibly want to betray his family and throw himself into the worst possible danger as a police mole.

   And yet here he is, five years later, in a lavish hotel room with Yuri Plisetsky, the beloved protégé of Moscow’s most dangerous and revered crime boss.

   ‘You like music?’ Yuri asks without looking over his shoulder, playing with the sound system. He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘I like music,’ he says, turning up the song that starts to play. It’s heavy with bass, a driving beat that makes Otabek feel strangely heady.

   He watches as Yuri saunters around the room, singing along in a soft, melodic voice that discloses none of his cruelty and doesn’t quite match the music.

   This hotel room is not perfect. Otabek would have preferred to be taken somewhere intimate, somewhere that could offer him an insight, somewhere without three bodyguards outside the door.

   _We’ll get there_ , he thinks. _Bide your time._

Yuri slides his jacket off in time with the music, exposing narrow shoulders and slender arms, every bone angular and pointed. His black t-shirt is small, but it hangs off him loosely - there’s little muscle there, he doesn’t need it. Otabek knows how Yuri works: by speed, stealth, and seduction. ‘You like what you see?’ he says, turning to Otabek and leaning back against the dressing table.

   ‘Would I be here if I didn’t?’ says Otabek, lips curling into a smile as Yuri angles his neck back, exposing the smooth line of his throat and hollowing his collarbones.

   ‘You might… if you were from a rival gang… or if you were an undercover cop…’ says Yuri, and Otabek’s heart skips a beat, but there’s no hint of interest in Yuri’s eyes. ‘If you _are_ … can you kill me or whatever _after_? I’ve been feeling very frustrated recently and I really do need to work out some... issues.’

   Otabek stares, still smiling. ‘I’ll make a note,’ he says.

   Yuri turns to the mirror of the dresser, examining himself. He leans all the way forward, arms propping himself up on the counter, until he’s almost at a right angle, perfect ass shifting from side to side as he muses over himself.

   _Perfect_.

   Otabek needs to stop thinking of him like that.

   ‘What do you think, Beka?’ he says, looking over his shoulder, ‘you think I’m pretty?’

   The nickname sends a chill down his spine. ‘Yes.’

   ‘Well you can’t even see from there,’ Yuri retorts, and it’s the first time that Otabek hears an edge slip into his voice. It’s gone again by the next time he speaks. ‘Come and have a look.’

   Otabek stands, walking over with steady steps. He’s not nervous, not really. Well, he’s nervous that Yuri or Nikiforov or _someone_ knows exactly who he is and they’re going to torture him to death in the next five minutes, but he’s not nervous about _this_ part. He’s always been good at this kind of thing - a smooth talker, a memorable _lover_ …

   He settles behind Yuri, crotch pressing ever so lightly against his ass as he leans over him, arms framing either side of his. He rests his chin lightly on Yuri’s shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror, before turning to speak closely in his ear. ‘I think you’re fucking perfect,’ he breathes, shifting forwards so that their bodies are more flush together.

   ‘Then you have a lot to learn,’ says Yuri, not even responding to the proximity. ‘Most men think I’m pretty. They see me and they don’t know me and they think I’m cute and small and _pliant_ \- their perfect little doll to play with.’ He turns, pushing Otabek back slightly, and hops up to sit on the side. ‘But I’m the one that does the _playing_.’

   Otabek swallows, heart a drum against his chest. He’s read so much about Yuri but he’s never found an account of what he’s like in…this environment. Either no one has ever got close enough, or no one has had the nerve to talk. Or no one has lived to tell the tale because there’s a fair chance either Yuri or Nikiforov might just kill off anyone who gets this far once they’re done. Otabek tries not to spend too long entertaining that particular notion.

   So he wasn’t sure what Yuri would like.

   He’d thought maybe he’d like to be thrown around, fucked hard, degraded or humiliated or treated like he’s worthless. That would have made sense. He’s doted on too much by Nikiforov, given too much attention, _worshipped_ too much - it wouldn’t be too surprising to find that he’d want to escape from that, want to be fucked like he’s _nothing_.

   Then he’d thought the opposite - that maybe he’d be the sadist. He certainly kills like one. Otabek had prepared himself for pretty much anything that Yuri might throw at him - been glad that he has such a high tolerance for _pain_.

   But now, looking at Yuri as he sits there, he still can’t figure it out.

   Except the answer is obvious:

   There is no answer.

   Yuri does what he wants, when he wants to.

   Otabek rests his hands on Yuri’s thighs, pushing them apart so that he can occupy the space between them. He leans down, one hand moving up to stroke Yuri’s face as he moves in for a kiss, and then -

   Yuri pushes him _hard_ , a proper shove to the chest, and he stumbles back. ‘I didn’t say you could _touch_ yet,’ he snaps, voice hard and lethal. ‘Do something like that again and I’ll cut your fucking hands off.’

   He nods quickly, genuinely taken aback.

   Maybe this isn’t going to be as easy as he thought.

   ‘Get on the bed,’ Yuri says, pushing him again.

   He falls backwards as the end of the bed hits the back of his knees, eyes fixated on Yuri as he prowls the room, walking to the minibar, where he pulls out two bottles of vodka.

   ‘Drink,’ he orders, thrusting one at Otabek.

   He shouldn’t drink much more - he had a fair amount at the club and he needs to keep his fucking head. But he can hardly refuse, not with Yuri looking down at him like that.

   ‘Now,’ says Yuri, crawling across the bed, catlike and sensual, until he is straddling Otabek’s waist. ‘You can touch me here,’ he says. He takes Otabek’s hands and settles them on his waist, fingers splaying down over his pointed hipbones.

   He starts to move to the music, hands running up and down Otabek’s forearms as he establishes a slow, languid rhythm. He rolls his hips down, throwing his head back, and _fuck_ it’s better than any lapdance Otabek has ever had. They’re fully clothed, Yuri’s his enemy, and yet it sends a rush of energy to all the wrong places. He’s aroused - it would be a fucking lie to pretend otherwise. He tightens his grip on Yuri’s waist, wishing upon wishing that he could speed things up, grind him down, get rid of these jeans and have Yuri riding him in a much more satisfying position and -

   ‘Tell me how much you want me, Beka.’

   ‘I want you,’ he responds without thought, ‘ _fuck_ I want you, Yuri.’

   ‘How much?’

   ‘Too much…’ he lets out a groan as Yuri works his hips in a slow, rhythmic circle, ass framing perfectly over his growing erection.

   ‘What do you want to do with me?’

   He watches as Yuri bites his lip, blond hair falling across his forehead. He doesn’t know what to say. _Fuck_. He still doesn’t know what Yuri wants. Finally, when the air can hold no more seconds of hesitation, he says, ‘everything. Let’s fucking wreck each other.’

   Yuri smiles.

   It’s the right answer.

   Otabek just _knew_ he liked it all.

   ‘How lucky was I to run into you tonight, Beka?’ he says sweetly.

   _Lucky_.

   Like Otabek hasn’t planned this moment for months.

   ‘I’m the lucky one,’ he exhales as Yuri moves his hands to settle on his chest, changing the angle of his seat slightly. Even through Otabek’s shirt, his nails dig into the skin. He leans all the way forwards, face an inch from Otabek’s.

   ‘Maybe. We’ll see,’ says Yuri, and then he swings his leg back over him and climbs off the bed. He picks up his jacket, throwing it over his shoulders without bothering with the sleeves.

   Otabek stares, eyes wide. _Fuck_. ‘Yuri…’

   ‘I don’t fuck on the first night, Beka. You’ll have to work a lot harder than that.’

   ‘When…?’

   ‘I’ll be in touch,’ says Yuri, before stalking out of the room as though nothing had just happened _._

Otabek groans, throwing his head back against the mattress and trying to steady his heavy breathing. He’s hard as fuck, body aching for Yuri to come back and give him some real attention, and he’s just watched his target walk out of the room.

   This evening took a turn for the fucking worse.

*

   ‘I want you to go tonight,’ says Dmitri, ‘you and Lucas. The bridge deal is wavering and I don’t trust those fucks from Cal’s gang to deal with it.’

   Otabek nods.  

   ‘He’s busy tonight.’

   They both look up in surprise.

   It’s three weeks later, three weeks of organising a shipment and sending a useless report back to the station and trying to ignore the fact that he hasn’t heard from Yuri Plisetsky once. He’d been starting to think the whole thing was a goddamn fever dream.

   But now a man stands in the garage, fingers grazing along the fresh paintjob on the car winched up beside him. He’s dressed well, in a full suit even though it’s hot in the garage, and he holds a certain air about him that exudes power. Dmitri clearly recognises him, because he shifts.

   ‘Says who?’ he asks, tilting his head up a little but Otabek can tell that this stranger outranks him.

   ‘Says the boss.’

   Dmitri looks at Otabek. Otabek looks at the visitor. ‘The…?’

   ‘Mr Nikiforov requests your company tonight.’

   ‘What the fuck does the boss want with Altin?’ Dmitri laughs.

   ‘That is irrelevant. He wants him.’ He looks to Otabek. ‘A car will collect you from your residence at eight o’clock tonight.’ He turns on his heel as though to leave, but then adds. ‘I’d wear something cleaner. Mr Nikiforov is very particular about his dinner guests, and he won’t take kindly to… whatever _that_ is.’

   Otabek looks down at the cargo pants and t-shirt that he’s wearing. As if he’d wear anything else at the fucking garage, disassembling cars to find the arms imports nestled in their parts.

   ‘Eight o’clock,’ he repeats, and then he’s gone.

   No mention of _why_. No mention of _Yuri_ at all.

   But this can surely only be a good sign.

   Not that he’s particularly looking forward to a dinner with the man who half-strangled him three weeks ago.

   ‘What does Mr Nikiforov want with you?’ Dmitri asks curiously, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

   ‘No idea,’ Otabek shrugs.

   ‘Bullshit. What business have you got with him?’  

   ‘I don’t think I should talk about it,’ Otabek says calmly.

   Dmitri is an intimidating guy, six foot four and built like a truck, but Otabek isn’t bothered by him. He’s a negotiator, not a fighter. That’s why he runs all this shit.

   He surveys him for a moment before speaking again. ‘Alright, well watch yourself.’

   Otabek nods.

   ‘Fuck, it’s going to be a right bitch finding a replacement for you when you move operation. The kids recruitment send me now are worse than useless.’

   ‘It’s not like that,’ says Otabek.

   ‘Yeah, yeah, sure it isn’t,’ Dmitri answers moodily. ‘ _And_ it means I’m going to have to send Mikhail with Lucas tonight…’

   As he grumbles on, Otabek wanders back over to the car he’d been working on. He can’t help but think that, dream for an undercover officer or not, he’d much rather be out there with Lucas than meeting with Viktor Nikiforov.

*

He owns a suit jacket, but not a tie.

   This catches the attention of the man who sits in the back of the car waiting - the same stranger from the garage - who looks upon him now with borderline contempt. ‘That’s really the best you could do?’

   ‘Don’t go to many formal dinners, do I?’ says Otabek, not forgetting that he’s supposed to be playing the role of a slightly thuggish arms operative who spends most of his time underground.

   ‘Christ,’ the guy mutters, reaching forwards into one of the compartments of the sleek car and withdrawing a box. ‘Here.’

   Otabek opens it, and finds a narrow black tie inside.

   ‘I assume you know how to _tie_ it?’ he adds with a withering look.

   ‘Yeah, yeah I think I can manage that,’ mutters Otabek, hooking it under his collar and working it into a simple knot. He highly doubts that his character would bother with a Windsor.

   The car takes them to a house that Otabek recognises. It’s way out of town, set deep in a gated estate with a considerable amount of land on either side. The gates are tall, mechanical, and topped with a narrow trail of barbed wire. No one would bat an eyelid, of course - Nikiforov owns this entire estate. Otabek counts eight sets of windows on each floor on the front façade.

   This is Nikiforov’s private residence.

   He knows it from his files.

   He’s invited Otabek to his _house_.

   ‘Alright, don’t look him in the eye, and you address him as _sir_ , only,’ the man next to him says, tone blank and business-like. He talks as though he doesn’t know Otabek already met the man three weeks ago - perhaps he doesn’t. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, and whatever you do, don’t _lie_ to him. He’ll know.’

   _Oh will he?_ Otabek doubts that. His experience suggests otherwise. ‘Got it,’ he says, climbing out of the car as the driver opens the door.

   The stranger presses the buzzer on the door intercom. ‘Mr Altin, here, for Mr Nikiforov.’

   Otabek swallows.

   Time to enter the lion’s den.

*

   He is taken to a parlour room, told to sit and wait. It’s so fucking pretentious that it makes him sick, but he does as he’s told, sitting on the very edge of a black leather chair and fiddling with the ring on his finger. It’s a marker, a gunmetal grey thing with the family name etched onto the inside.

   He’s left to wait for a painstaking amount of time - a power play, he’s sure.

   It’s so long that he stands up, wandering around the room.

   He’s supposed to be investigating , after all.

   There’s no doubt a camera in here, so he doesn’t do much open reconnaissance, but he walks around with an air of casual curiosity that any visitor might carry with him, picking up a couple of ornaments from the mantelpiece to take a closer look at them.

   He can tell that Nikiforov likes _things_. Clutter. Trophies, maybe.

   It’s an odd collection of stuff, some of it Russian and some of it clearly not, and there are a few polished photos amongst the junk. He looks closer at one, narrowing his eyes.

   Nikiforov is in the centre, slightly younger by the looks of it. To his right is an old man that must be his father - if he squints Otabek can just about remember him from the old files. He’s dead now though. To his left is Yuri - his hair was shorter then, and he is half turned away from Nikiforov, but the scowl on his face could be no one else. There are a couple of other people in the photograph that he doesn’t recognise.

   It’s an intimate photo - nothing like the ones that he has seen before.

   ‘I thought you told me that you’d stop staring at him.’

   Otabek whirls around, almost dropping the ornate set of Russian dolls that he had forgotten to put down while distracted by the photo.

   Nikiforov smiles, an expression that absolutely does not suit him. He’s framed in the doorway, looking every bit the mafia boss as he surveys the scene before him. He’s dressed in ostentatious finery, better fitted to decades earlier, with his silvery hair pulled back in a sleek, neat style.

   ‘Sorry - sir,’ he adds, as an afterthought.

   ‘I’m joking, Mr Altin. I let you go to that hotel room, didn’t I?’

   He nods, setting down the dolls.

   ‘How was it?’ Nikiforov asks, wandering over to the low table by the couches and picking up a decanter of red wine. Blood red.

   ‘I… what?’

   ‘With Yuri,’ he says, pouring out a glass and holding it out to him. ‘I’m guessing you boys had fun. He’s quite taken with you, after all. Wouldn’t stop talking about you afterwards.’

   ‘He… really?’

   Nikiforov smiles again. ‘You seem surprised?’

   ‘We didn’t…’

   ‘Of course you didn’t,’ he laughs, ‘my Yuri is quite difficult to please. You didn’t really think he’d let you have him the first time, did you?’

   Otabek is half-embarrassed, but only by his own stupidity. He _had_ thought it would be that easy.

   ‘Anyway, he wouldn’t stop talking about wanting to see you again, so I gave him a couple of weeks to cool off. I hoped it would be a minor infatuation, which would fade with distraction.’

   What kind of distraction? Violence? Murder? Otabek knows the sort of thing these people do for fun.

   ‘And yet, here we are. So I thought I would ask you for dinner. Get to know the man who wants a spot on my Yuri’s arm. Shall we?’ he inclines his head to another door.

   Otabek nods.

   He’d thought it would take months - weeks and weeks of careful seduction, coy nudges forward closer and closer into the inner circle. Three weeks later and he’s being led into an intimate audience with the biggest boss of all.

   This family is strange.

   Which means that nothing is predictable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much who are supporting this fic and leaving your kind comments <3 I love you all so much! xx

   Otabek is struck by the notion, somewhere into the second course, that dining with Viktor Nikiforov feels rather like banqueting with a particularly grandiose vampire.  

   The food itself is half to blame for the drama; Nikiforov seems to be very fond of _lean red meat._   

   The host does not talk while eating – decreeing that food ought to be enjoyed fully before the topic of conversation could “taint the taste”.

   Nor does he spare much attention to the guest that _he_ invited, barely glancing in Otabek’s direction.

   It’s so fucking uncomfortable that Otabek has to work incredibly hard to chew his food, trying to concentrate only on the sirloin steak in front of him and the glass of red wine that he’s drinking a little too quickly. He can’t help it. He just wants to get the fuck out of here. He knows that it will be wasted opportunity if he comes away with nothing, but the house is so unsettling, the man even creepier, that he’s a second away from cutting his losses.

   But he endures.

   He eats his way through the richest food he’s ever tasted in his life; he looks up as often as he dares to try to make some appraisal of the most dangerous man in Moscow; and he wonders over and over again whether this evening will end with his blood being drained or his head stuck on a spike somewhere.

   Escapist humour aside, he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t put it past Nikiforov.

   He’s seen a fair few… _ceremonial_ … killings in his file.

   _Finally_ , after what must have been _two hours_ of silence broken only by the clinking of silverware, Nikiforov speaks.

   ‘Did you like the steak?’

   These aren’t what Otabek had expected his firsts words to be. ‘It was excellent,’ he says automatically.

   ‘I have the best chef in Moscow,’ Nikiforov muses, pushing his dessert plate away and snapping his fingers for his staff to return. They clear the table quickly, bringing back full glasses of brandy and a recognisably vintage tin of cigars.

   ‘My compliments to him,’ Otabek inclines his head.

   ‘Altin, your name is?’ he asks nonchalantly, as though he might have it wrong.

   _As if_.

   Otabek knows that Nikiforov will have researched every detail of his life before inviting him to this sanctum. He just hopes that the false trails of the last five years are good enough.

   ‘Yes, sir.’

   ‘Your family is one of ours, is it not?’

   ‘Yes. Since my great-grandfather.’

   This is the link that has got him everywhere. These days his family aren’t entirely involved, the last two connections to the mob coming through just two remaining patriarchs, but it’s just about the right amount of distance to assure him a decent position without too much scrutiny.

   ‘Your father?’

   ‘He’s up the river, right now,’ says Otabek, quite glad that the conversation has been steered around in this direction. His family have a good record – this could do very well for him. ‘And my uncle,’ he says.

   ‘How long?’

   ‘My father is four years into a twelve-year sentence, for drug trafficking. My uncle just got put away for another three. He’s been in and out. But they only got him for conspiracy to sell.’

   ‘They both worked in Georgi’s division?’

   Otabek nods.

   ‘Good soldiers,’ says Nikiforov, ‘better in the joint than in bed with the cops. I’ll check up on them, make sure they’re receiving the appropriate protection.’

   ‘Thank you, sir,’ Otabek murmurs.

   ‘But you’re with Dmitri?’

   ‘My father wanted me to keep my distance from the trade – I’m his only son, he didn’t want me involved when there was so much heat. I hope you’ll understand…’

   Nikiforov waves a dismissive hand. ‘Of course, of course. I protect my own by encouraging their distance too. There’s no compulsory heritance in this family. Though I _am_ glad you clearly saw fit to follow in their footsteps.’

   Otabek wonders, for a moment, who exactly is counted in that exclusive group of _his own_. ‘I wanted to join, but I knew my father would be unhappy if I went in that same direction, so I approached Dmitri.’

   ‘Well from what I’ve heard he’s got a good worker in you.’

   ‘Thank you, sir.’

   There’s a silence, the crack of a match ringing around the room as Nikiforov lights his cigar, sliding the tin across to him, and then –

   ‘What do you want from my Yuri?’

   His mouth falls open a little, brain racing for an answer. He’s knocked off course, alarmed by the sudden change in conversation. ‘I… I like him,’ he says noncommittally.

   ‘You like him because you want to fuck him?’ Nikiforov asks, tone unchanged.

   Otabek feels sick.

   ‘It’s okay, Mr Altin. Yuri’s a big boy, he’s allowed to have _fun_. I just want to clarify what you’re looking for so that I can take the adequate measures to safeguard him.’

   ‘Yeah, I guess…’ he trails off. ‘But he’s interesting… he’s - ’

   ‘Addictive? So you’ll be back for more? This isn’t a one-time thing?’

   ‘I don’t - ’

   ‘Let me make myself plain, Mr Altin. You can see him. You can fuck him. You can bruise him and bind him and make him cry and anything else if he _wants_ you to,’ his lips curve up in a dangerous smile as he says it. ‘But if you make him do something that he _doesn’t_ want, or if you hurt his _heart_ , or if I find out you’re using him for anything other than a good time for both of you, I will end you in ways that you can’t even imagine.’

   Otabek nods hurriedly, heart pounding.

   ‘I will make death seem like the welcoming embrace of your mother by the time I’m done with you. I’ll make you beg me to kill you, I promise. If you still have a tongue, by that point, that is.’

   Otabek nods again, wondering if his swallow is audible.

   ‘Do I make myself clear?’

   ‘Yes sir,’ he says, mouth dry.

   ‘Your family have been good to me, so I’ll return your remains to them. But your name won’t save you.’

   ‘I understand.’

   ‘Excellent,’ Nikiforov smiles. He’s framed by a cloud of smoke, one long finger stirring in his brandy. ‘You still don’t want to run away?’

   ‘I’m not going to do any of those things,’ Otabek says, ‘so I’m not worried. Like I said – I like him. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t hurt him.’

   ‘Well, like _I_ said, he might ask you to,’ Nikiforov shrugs, ‘so you’d best shift that reticence sooner or later. My Yuri loves to play. But I admire your sentiment.’

  Otabek isn’t sure if there’s a response for that.

   ‘Now, I’m ready to take my evening stroll around the grounds,’ Nikiforov announces, tone business-like. ‘You may walk with me as far as the library.’

   ‘Oh… okay,’ Otabek stammers, draining his brandy and standing quickly.

   He follows him out into a long corridor, past door after door. There’s so much to take in, from the red velvet carpets, to the portraiture that adorns the walls. There’s security too, at least two armed guards in the short distance and small cameras with blinking red lights up below the coving.

   If this is the bit where he’s led to his death, he wouldn’t be surprised.

   What does surprise him, is when Nikiforov stops suddenly, opening a door to the right and walking inside.

   ‘Don’t you ever _knock_?’

   Yuri’s voice.

   Otabek’s heart skips a beat.

   ‘It’s my house.’

   ‘I thought you were _busy_ tonight? I would’ve stayed in my room if I’d known you’d be prowling the corridors.’

   ‘Watch your tongue, kitten,’ he says, in a tone that would have made Otabek baulk but seems to earn only a derisive snort from Yuri. ‘Besides, I brought you a present.’

   Figuring that this is his cue to enter, Otabek steps inside.

   Yuri looks up, a flash of excitement across his eyes as he sees him.

   He looks small, curled up in an armchair with his knees tucked up to his chest, an open book held in one hand. It’s not the Yuri that Otabek has seen before. His long hair is braided back loosely, rather than knotted how he wears it outside. He’s wearing grey sweats and a large white sweater that hangs off one shoulder, rather than the black t-shirt and black jeans and black leather jacket that make up his public attire. He looks lovely.

   A lovely fucking monster.

   Otabek still can’t quite get his head around the pretty face that hides so much.

   ‘You brought him here?’ Yuri asks in astonishment. ‘ _Here_?’

   ‘Well you like him so much,’ Nikiforov shrugs, ‘you know how much I want to make you happy. If you stopped biting my head off for five minutes you’d see that.’

   ‘Thanks, Viktor,’ he breathes, untangling himself from the chair and skipping over. ‘Now get out.’

   ‘ _Don’t_ ,’ says Nikiforov, edge returning to his voice, ‘don’t push me when I’ve done something nice for you, kitten.’

   ‘Sorry, _please leave_ ,’ Yuri adjusts with a smile and a cock of the head, ‘I just want him all to myself.’

   Nikiforov shakes his head, but Otabek can tell by a single glance between them that he would do just about anything for this boy. And Yuri clearly knows it.     

   ‘Play nice with him,’ he says, ‘he doesn’t want to _hurt_ you.’

   Yuri’s smile sweetens. ‘How cute.’

   Nikiforov gives Otabek one more look as he leaves, stopping and clapping a hand down on his shoulder. It doesn’t escape the latter’s notice that his grip is _very_ tight. ‘You remember what I said?’

   ‘Of course, sir,’ he says quietly.

   ‘Good. Don’t ever forget.’

   When the two of them are alone, Otabek actually feels himself relax a little.

   Yuri is less intimidating.

   He’s dangerous, unpredictable, and voraciously volatile.

   And yet Otabek feels strangely comfortable in his presence – certainly more than he did with Nikiforov. Perhaps it’s because he can at least see it somewhere in Yuri’s eyes that he _likes_ him.

   ‘Oh Beka, I can’t believe you’re _here_ ,’ Yuri beams, and when he smiles like that it’s even harder to see the evil. ‘I was starting to think Viktor wouldn’t let me see you again. He’s been in such a foul mood, recently.’

   ‘Why?’ Otabek asks, before he can stop himself.

   If Yuri thinks it’s strange that he wants to know, he doesn’t show it. He hopes that it came across as throwaway curiosity. ‘Oh this and that,’ Yuri says, but he very pointedly avoids specifics. ‘There’s always something.’

   ‘I can imagine,’ Otabek gives a soft laugh. He’s not going to push it. ‘I’m sure he’s always busy.’

   ‘Let’s not talk about Viktor,’ Yuri says, and for the first time Otabek sees something like an… insecurity in his eyes.

   ‘No, let’s not,’ Otabek says, lifting a hand as though to touch Yuri’s face but leaving his fingers a little distance from his cheek. ‘I only want to talk about you.’

   It is obviously the right thing to have said. ‘You can touch.’

   He brushes his fingers up against his pale skin, his own tan a striking gold by comparison. Yuri’s skin is like snow, so unblemished and smooth. Otabek’s hands are calloused from work in the garage, and he can’t help the thought that flits across his mind of how much he’d like to knead his rough fingers harder across Yuri’s soft skin.

   He remembers, as he imagines it, what Yuri had said: about how so many guys had thought he was like a _doll_.

   Now, up close, touching him like this, Otabek can understand why.

   But Yuri had been very clear about the fact that they were wrong.

   He strokes his fingertips lightly down his cheek, the fingers on the outside of his hand lingering very close to his lips. He doesn’t miss the way that Yuri leans a little into his touch, body angling slightly forwards.

   ‘You’re so fucking pretty, Yuri,’ he says.

   ‘You haven’t seen anything, yet.’

   ‘Oh I bet I haven’t.’

   ‘How do you want to see me, Beka?’ Yuri says, closing the gap between them and hooking two fingers into Otabek’s beltloops, pulling him flush against him. ‘What do you want to see me doing?’

   Otabek’s heart is pounding. He can feel by the air in the room that tonight is only going one way. He’s finally going to get to touch him. He’s going to get to fuck him. He can feel it.

   A thrill rushes through his veins.

   Because it’s good for the mission, of course.

   But it’s not like he can’t have fun while he’s at it.

   And Yuri really is so fucking hot…

   ‘I want to see all of you… none of this shit between us,’ he says in the lowest, steadiest voice he can find, taking the hem of Yuri’s sweater between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a small lift in indication.

   ‘Spell it out, Beka. Tell me. Tell me properly. Don’t be _soft_. Tell me how you want me on my knees. Tell me how you want to see how I look when I look up at you, how I look when I’m fucking gagging around you, how - ’

   It strikes Otabek, between the pulses of arousal now firing through his neurons, that Yuri is telling him pretty clearly what he _should_ want. He’s not surprised. Yuri might think that he wants to be controlled, but it’s only _because_ he’s a control freak. Otabek’s pretty sure that he could cuff Yuri to the bed, gag his pretty little mouth, do whatever the fuck he wanted with him, and _Yuri_ would still wind up being the one in control.

   The thought unnerves him.

   But it also makes him twitch in his pants with interest.

   ‘ – tell me how you want to see my cock so bad, Beka,’ Yuri breathes against his ear, nipping at the vulnerable skin beneath the lobe and licking wetly over the spot. ‘I know you want to see if it’s as pretty as the rest of me.’

   ‘I do,’ Otabek groans, closing his eyes as Yuri grinds his crotch up against him.

   ‘Then what are you waiting for?’ Yuri pulls back, smiling without a hint of instability in his eyes even though Otabek has just about lost himself for a moment.

   Yuri grabs his hand, grasp as tight as Nikiforov’s had been on his shoulder earlier.

   He pulls him out of the room, moving very fast, tugging him along the corridor and around a corner, past a huge, wide window that seemed to travel the whole length of this particular hall.

   Otabek glances out of it, just for a second, and sees –

   Is it Nikiforov?

   Yes, even from a distance, he can’t miss the hair.

   He’s with someone else, walking through the grounds. There are a lot of trees, and statues that they keep passing behind, but they seem to be talking very closely.

   All too quickly, the window ends, and he’s met with nothing to look at but the intricate fucking wallpaper.

   He forces himself to look back at Yuri before his distraction is noticed.

   Who was it?

   Yuri pulls him to a room at the end of the corridor, opening the door and turning to face him as he stands in the doorway. His stance is coy, weight on one foot, a hand moving up to run through his hair. He smiles at Otabek, tongue stroking out over his bottom lip.

   As he watches him, Otabek tries to remember the job.

   _Who was that with Nikiforov_?

   This could be important.

   But it’s difficult.

   It’s difficult to think straight when he’s sporting a semi and Yuri’s so fucking pretty and two minutes earlier he’d described the most perfect scene Otabek could imagine.

   The stranger outside can wait.

   He’s got more interesting things to be doing.

   ‘ _So_?’ Yuri says, apparently unimpressed by his lack of action.

   ‘Can I?’ Otabek asks, still very mindful that the last time he touched him without permission Yuri threatened to _cut his fucking hands off_.

   ‘Some time today would be good.’

   Otabek steps forward, both hands grabbing Yuri’s waist with an unforgiving grip, and pushes him inside the room. The light, happy laugh that escapes Yuri’s lips is music to his ears.

   The slam of the door rings around the entire wing of the house.


End file.
